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COPYRIGHT DEPOSER 



A CALIFORNIAN 

THROUGH 

Connecticut and the Berkshires 

BY 
R. W. OSBORN 



COPYRIGHT 1916 
BY R. W. OSBORN 



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To 

a good host 
C F. OSBORN 

of 

New Haven, Conn. 

this volume is dedicated 
by the author 



JAN -5 1917 



Ci.A453528 



FORE-WORD 



It has been said that a Californian is so satiated with scen- 
ery, climate, color and atmosphere that he cannot appreciate the 
beauty of other places. 

This is unfair to us Californians, it is untrue. The follow- 
ing pages will prove how untrue it is, for the author is not alone 
with a sense of beauty in other parts of our country, wherever 
that beauty may reveal itself. We have our venerated tradi- 
tions, but we do not feast on them. We have a carnival of color 
and awe-inspiring scenery, but he who truly loves these things, 
loves them where'er they are found. That part of the country 
described in this volume conquered the v^riter and he does 
not hesitate to say so. 

R. W. O. 

Berkeley, November, 1916. 



- 




[HIS is designed as a simple narrative, so simple in 
fact, that the author makes no pretense as to any 
value to be attached to it, other than the one of 
satisfaction that it gives in its recital. The trip 
consumed five days, starting from New Haven, Connecticut, 
to the Berkshires in Massachusetts and return to New Haven 
thence to New York. 

While there were many good souls that figured in the 
events of the week, yet for obvious reasons we shall confine 
the characters to four: Partner, Bill, Ernest and Rufus, to say 
nothing of the "Brown Sea-going Jitney" which was the car. 

Why expatiate upon the characters of these four. Let 
the recital delineate them. 

Rufus was probably the most uncommunicative, the most 
taciturn of all acquaintances made on the trip. There was a 
naughty little twinkle in his eyes of ashen gray. He would 
nod his approval of certain suggestions, smile most appeal- 
ingly and there was something about him that inspired com- 
panionship. He did not, as we recall, say very much on any 
subject. Like Ernest he was a good listener. 

How true it is that the deepest attachments are sometimes 
made eternal not so much by what is said as by what is radiated. 
Bill knows this, knows it to be a psychological fact, for more 
than once on the trip did he seem lost, oblivious of all the 
passing show, the eternal beauty of the scene around him. 

Says Pard, "Bill, what are you thinking about, home eh?" 
And in a quiet, yet impelling, response he answered "Home." 
For it was far away in that beautiful city of Berkeley which 
nestles the hillside, where are those whom he loves ; and there 
was one there whose propinquity to Bill was the inspiration 
for the good that was his. He often said that silent communion 
with her was v/orth more in the contentment and happiness of 
life than could be found in the richness of converse with a 
Madame de Stael. 

But then each has some one to conserve that spiritual 
link between two likely souls. With Bill it was his wife and 
children, who formed a chain forged not by the mythical hand 
of a Vulcan, but by an inscrutable Providence. 

"Look Bill," Partner was forever disturbing the continuity 
of such thoughts by calling attention to some noted place of 
beauty, "that is Bligame Cottage. Say! if that's a 'cottage' 
what would you call a mansion?" 



Sure enough what would you? There in stately grandeur 
stood a mansion surmounting a knoll overlooking a vast 
estate, with its rich carpet of green that stretched before the 
home, like a Persian rug with a field of single tone and bor- 
dered by a rich design such as the Kirman or the Shiraz. 

This home, magnificent as a picture, was none the less like 
a beautiful woman, richly gowned and jeweled, whose beauty, 
however, was according to the conventional lines of art, but 
without a spiritual mark to denote a soul. A Niobe in tears. 

There are many, many of these beautiful homes which 
dazzle the eye, but appeal to the mind as of purposeless exist- 
ence. 

"Hard on to port" or something like it, "but steer the 
craft to the regular channel." 

"Quite true, to the channel" says Bill, and so we proceed 
with our story and omit these excursions into the Gulf of 
Speculation. 

Our first night in New Haven was by no means a Baccha- 
nalian bout nor was it a Chautauqua meeting, but as truth pays 
homage to the gods, it must be recorded that the evening was 
a round of pleasure among congenial and fitting souls, and 
you will find them in New Haven. Partner is a good enter- 
tainer, he seems to know how to search the very heart for its 
yearnings, although not infrequently throughout the evening 
he would sit like a king without a crown, his sceptre being a 
smile. He would listen complacently to Bill's recital of the 
beauties of California and was always playfully tolerant of 
human short-comings when it came to politics. Partner was 
a Wilsonian Democrat while Bill — might have been a "green- 
backer" because, as he often said, he favored lots of money. 

But to the evening! 

Bill had been recounting how once upon a time when he 
and his wife had closed their home for a few months and left 
word with neighbors that if at any time a light should be 
seen within the house to ring for the police, that something 
would be wrong; and how inadvertently upon returning, the 
lights were turned on, and having failed to give the neighbors 
warning, the unexpected happened. Of course, it was a good 
story, but, bless your soul, you cannot outwit the East ; and is it 
not strange that human nature is pretty much the same whether 
in New Haven or in San Francisco? But truth outrides fic- 
tion and the Major remarked (and by the way we will des- 



ignate him "the Major" in order to contradistinguish him 
from the other guests, and again parenthetically, the Major 
was one of the Police Commissioners of his town) that he 
and his wife had done likewise but with this exception, that 
a squad of policemen came to his home and battered the 
front door making things pretty lively for the Major, who 
eventually made known his identity. 

"Well," as one of the sweet bits of femininity remarked: 
"If we do not start home it will verge perilously close to 
the 'wee sma' hours,' " and the next day was to commence 
the trip that was to be the raison d'etre of this narrative. 



II. 

We started from New Haven about 10 o'clock, taking 
the road by Wallingford and Meriden to Hartford, which lat- 
ter place was the objective point for luncheon. The road is 
an excellent one, quite in keeping with the eastern reputa- 
tion for good roads. To a Westerner the trip lends additional 
interest in view of the number of "Ye Olden" homes along 
the highway. "Erected in 1650," 1710, 1750, etc., are quite 
ordinary observations and one can, with a little imagination, 
picture many scenes of that period. As you approach the 
historic city of Hartford one is impressed with the fact that the 
city occupies the low-lands, for indeed you descend quite a 
bit into the hollow of a bowl. But the city is beautiful and 
interesting and if one be at all acquainted there, the conven- 
tional New England reserve is not at all evident. A whole- 
some Americanism pervades the place, a quiet dignity is no- 
ticeable and the air is redolent of a good old-fashioned sin- 
cerity. 

We luncheoned at the Hueblein, where we partook of 
more than a modest refection, but of the palatable viandry, 
the Golden Bantam corn was the most seductive. The menu 
consisted of clams on the half shell, some corn, dainty lamb 
chops, some corn, a salad, then some corn. Oh, well, never 
mind the remainder, for corn was king, and with a knightly 
courtesy, reverence was paid to the king. Long live the 
king! 

After a few calls on friends the trip was continued by 
taking a northwesterly course through New Hartford, Nor- 
folk, Canaan, and then Ashley Falls to Sheffield, all a beau- 
tiful country, with fine roads. As you approach Ashley 
Falls the Housatonic River unfolds through its sinuous curves 
and from there on through to Great Barrington the country 
is simply entrancing. 

Sheffield, they say, is the oldest incorporated city in the 
Berkshires and the record reveals the fact that it v/as pur- 
chased from an Indian named Konkpot, or something like it. 

The price paid was a little gold, a few barrels of cider and 
then some rum — probably it was the intrinsic value of the 
latter that sealed the bargain. 

Great Barrington is a pretty place with many notably 
beautiful homes and gardens, wide streets tree-lined, and it is 

8 



claimed but not proven that Bryant wrote there his Thana- 
topsis, while serving as town clerk, enough to make Barring- 
ton great. 

But Stockbridge is more impressive to the traveler; de- 
void of business aspect, it invites a feeling of refined ex- 
clusion, not, however, in any opprobrious sense. There you 
will find many excellent examples of rich colonial architecture 
with no prearranged or set system in laying out the village. 
It is probably this unconventional irregularity that is so im- 
pressive. The highway, for it is most unpoetic to style it a 
street, is artistic in contour and suggestive of very old age, 
an aspect that does so much to lend enchantment to parts of 
New England. The church sits serenely midst a clump of 
stately elms which forms the groined arch for the richly car- 
peted aisle of green lawn. Then the eye is detained for a mo- 
ment to feast upon the pure colonialism of the Jonathan Ed- 
v^ards house, again to become riveted to the beautiful Sar- 
geant Memorial Tower more like a campanile, with a rich 
clinging vine to lend a poetic beauty to its chaste architec- 
ture. The clock in the roof dormer suggests — 

"Son, observe the time and fly from evil." 
although it would seem impossible for evil thoughts to con- 
gregate around the village. 

The town sits close to the river which lends additional 
charm to the scene, but after all it is the refinement, the cul- 
tivated atmosphere and the charming sense of laissez-faire 
that holds in rapture the truant tourist. 

Before reaching Stockbridge, however, the eye observes 
Monument Mountain replete with legendary lore and made 
more famous by Bryant — 

"There is a precipice 
That seems a fragment of some mighty wall 
Built by the hand that fashioned the old world." 

The stone cairn erected by the Indians was the object of 
religious ceremonials of the tribes of long ago and pilgrim- 
age to this shrine is continued by the redmen. 

It was here, so the legend runs, that an Indian maid, 
who loved most passionately a cousin of the blood, died lest 
the incestuous love should bring her shame. 

From Stockbridge the traveler can tour the scenic road 
known as Jacob's Ladder or keep on north to Lenox, which 
latter we did. 

9 



If you can picture the transition of mind upon leaving a 
company of intellectual people and immediately entering a 
richly appointed room graced by women of gorgeous rai- 
ment, be-jewelled and around them all of the attributes of 
wealth, one can at least comprehend the difference between 
these two places. Leave a Madame de Stael and be shown a 
priceless statue of an inanimate Venus. 

Well, as it is related, Stockbridge excites the deepest 
feelings of the soul, Lenox appeals to the senses. 

At one time in its history Lenox was the rendezvous for 
literary people. Hawthorne lived there, wrote there; but to 
the passerby it no longer pays tribute to the intellectual as- 
pects of life, but rather to the refinements to which wealth 
pays homage. 

It is in the air, the very atmosphere is redolent of all the 
uses and abuses of wealth. It is simply magnificent. Venus 
de Milo stands there all right but there is no soul within her 
marble form. The ivory image of Galatea 

" — is beautiful indeed, but cold." 

No Pygmalion to ask that it be given a soul. 

Knoll after knoll is enriched by a mansion of wonderful 
beauty overlooking the charming valley with repeating in- 
tervales, surrounded by trees full open with their thousands 
of leaves nodding in the breeze, the massive oaks with their 
gnarled limbs and the undulating low hills following each 
other like the ocean waves and covered with lawns of a green 
of greens. The vision is now obscured by a clump of trees, 
then an open vista and this in turn closed by the hushed se- 
clusion of a tiny forest. It is rapture but sensual. 

It is art in its fullness, but lacks the spirit which true art 
reveals. 

Leaving Lenox it was not long before we reached Pitts- 
field for the night. Approaching the city the sun was sinking 
in the West, but the scenes of the day were still rich in their 
tones of warmth and it seemed cruel to leave them, for as 
the day weds the night, in the passing we cling closer to the 
light. We were in moods of faith and v^hen the night closed 
all view to that which had been, it was the living expectation 
of the morrow that fed the mind. Good night. 



10 



III. 



Calmed by a sleep of sweet repose, as tenants of a house 
of clay, we vacated the premises and moved; had it been a 
waking hour it would have been a beautiful reverie. 

Then some doubtful dreams moved by the current of 
waking thoughts, ceased. We had been living in a transcend- 
ent idealism of the preceding day and it was no small disap- 
pointment to be jarred by the clang of the bells on the street 
cars at Pittsfield; however, to be up and doing, and doing 
comprehended not only the cold bath but a shave as well. 
When we knocked on Partner's door there was no response 
and peeking in we observed there lying supinely on the rest- 
ful couch, the author of our outing. 

"Aren't you going to get up?" said Bill. 

"Never fear, never fear," came the response from under 
the covers. However, it was not long before we had break- 
fasted and taken a fresh start toward Williamstown and the 
Mohawk Trail. We rode through a marvelously beautiful 
country of excellent roads, and reached North Adams about 
10 o'clock. North Adams is essentially a commercial city, 
a manufacturing town. Textile mills are there in plenty and 
it was with no regret that we made a sharp turn to observe 
the sign "Mohawk Trail." Ernest had started his machine 
so as to carry the grade on the high and was making it well 
although the grade is rather a steep one, when a fruit vender 
decided at an inauspicious moment to turn his rig to the left 
which required our chauffeur to be "Johnnie-on-the-spot." 
Ernest made a flank movement, a slight detour and then pro- 
ceeded up the grade, a little put out however, as he was com- 
pelled, before reaching the summit, to go into the interme- 
diate. This trail is the original one laid out by the Indians 
long before that part of Massachusetts had a reputation. En- 
gineers cut a shelf in the side of the hills so as to get an un- 
obstructed view practically throughout the drive. Once in 
a v/hile there was a sharp turn or a generous curve, but 
usually long stretches of fairly straight road and, as Partner 
says, "some road." There is an ever changing panorama and 
yet a complete harmony in the scene, like impressions that 
cluster about one reacting upon one another until the mind 
contains one harmonious thought. The Berkshires unlike 
our western scenery are thoroughly co-related, there are no 

11 



defiant breaches in their continuity, not unlike a poem that 
tells you its story simply, beautifully and poetically without 
making any excursions into the unusual or departing in any 
sense from its text. 

As we were speeding around a curve in the road we 
noticed many motor cars ahead, from which the passengers 
had alighted to view the enchanting scene from the point 
called "Hairpin Curve." 

A beautiful sight! 

"Hello, Ben!" said Partner, and this salutation was ad- 
dressed to a young fellow of about fifteen summers, who be- 
tween school periods and home, made his fortune by selling 
postcards and banners to the tourists. 

Ben says that his business nets him an average of 
thirty dollars a week; one week in summer his receipts 
reached seventy-two dollars. Some business for a kid of 
fifteen, eh? 

"Do you go to school, Ben?" ventured Bill 

"Sure, and in vacation and after school I sell the cards." 

Of course, we bought some. That is Partner did, for he 
had a way of impressing his guests with the fact that he is 
the host and "some host, believe me," says Bill. 

Well, it is recorded the cards were purchased, and Bill 
started a little conversation. 

"To whom do you sell the most," and quickly Ben's ex- 
pressive eyes scintillated. 

"Oh, gee, I am a wise guy and only offer once to the big 
cars," then, "you see, mister, the big and expensive cars usu- 
ally have some old, rich guy who is covered all over with 
robes, and in charge of a lady nurse. They are crotchety and 
have a grouch so I give them the go-by." 

"Well," questioned Bill, "who, then, are your best cus- 
tomers?" 

"Oh, the cheap cars, mostly Fords, are my best custom- 
ers, excepting my friend here (pointing to Partner), who is 
a mighty good customer. Gee, he must give lots of cards 
away." Then after a pause he continued, "I'd know that car 
anywhere, it's a beauty all right." 

Ben not only knew a good car but had a keen sense of 
beauty. 

Now there is some psychology in Ben's observation about 
people, for how true it is that very often with tourists motor 

12 



driven, one will encounter the millionaire broken in health, 
taking a ride with a nurse and maybe some of the family as 
a precaution against what the French say is "the unexpected." 
Two interesting studies, psychological and socialogical. 

But the Hairpin Curve! 

The Berkshire hills are not noted for their grandeur, it 
would not be the proper word to use in a descriptive sense. 
They are beautiful almost beyond compare. They incite the 
poetic instinct rather than awe and for that reason the euph- 
onious name "Mohawk Trail" should never have been dese- 
crated by introducing so unpoetic a name as Hairpin Curve 
to any part of it. True, that would probably suggest itself 
to the mind of the engineer who, by the way, had to work 
out some mathematical problems in making that bend, but 
should this not be termed Inspiration Point? for that is just 
what it is. You drive along a beautiful road lined with elms, 
oaks, birches and other trees too numerous to mention, to 
say nothing of the clinging shrubs, the ivy, sumac, golden 
rod and the aster, when all at once you come to this 
curve and a scene of beauty lies before you. From that point 
you look into the States of Vermont, Connecticut and New 
York, and observe numerous villages quietly browsing in the 
lawns of nature. The undulating hills give a quaint and pic- 
turesque touch in their rational continuity not infrequently 
contrasted and in the later fall must present a picture of in- 
describable beauty. We were there e'er Jack Frost had 
pinched the cheek of the stately elm or the maple, but he had 
none the less stealthily crept along the ground and in his 
merciless delight brought the first blush to the poison ivy 
and the sumac. Proceeding as far as Charlemont we then 
retraced our steps to North Adams thence to Williamstown. 

As related, the impression indescribably fixed upon our 
minds at Stockbridge reached its superlative degree at the 
quaint old college town. It beggars description. Apart from 
its scholastic atmosphere and its tutored refinement, there is 
a culture that one inevitably feels and not only is this in the 
air, not only evidenced in its stately and beautiful buildings 
but even the tourists seem impressed with it and the wait- 
ers in the hotel were marked by it. You cannot enter 
Williamstown without departing with a feeling better for 
having been there, and whether in man or place such a trait 
is an invaluable asset and a beautiful heritage. 

13 



It is another story to expatiate upon the age of the col- 
lege, its quaint history, how a legacy was left with which it 
was endowed, that Garfield was a student there and his son 
now its president — all that is apart from the picture unfolded 
to the visitor. It is one continuous lawn and one almost for- 
gets that it is broken here and there by streets. It is the most 
beautiful college campus that Bill had seen. 

As we alighted before the main entrance to the Greylock 
Hotel Partner was heard to remark: 

"Bill, I don't know how you feel, but my pantry is. 
empty," and we proceeded to the dining-room to replenish our 
larders. As is previously related, the maids and waiters, 
were an uncommon lot of delightful femininity, much prettier 
and better mannered than some of the guests, for we saw one 
woman and her daughters who stood out in striking contrast 
with the culture and refinement of the place, but as we were 

informed they were from and quite wealthy. But to our 

muttons ! 

After passing about two and a half hours at Williamstown 
we proceeded on our journey toward Pawnal and Bennington,^ 
by the White Oaks Road over which the Berkshire warriors 
marched to fight the British at Bennington, both old-fashioned 
Vermont towns, the latter, as the reader well knows, is quite 
historic and with a real revolutionary flavor. 

Well, it is about time to consider our return to the fas- 
cinating college town, thence on to Pittsfield. 

At this juncture we crossed the State line between Mas- 
sachusetts and Vermont. It is claimed that an error was 
made in the survey of this line and through which error Wil- 
liams College was placed in Massachusetts instead of Ver- 
mont. Stupid of the surveyor but how fortunate for Massa- 
chusetts, potentially illustrating the law of compensation. 

The luncheon at the Greylock was excellent and the trav- 
elers having partaken sumptuously, Bill was inclined to be 
drowsy, in fact two or three times Partner noticed that Bill 
was in the Land of Nod. 

It was not at all uncommon to pass place after place that 
Partner would designate as a battleground or the scene of 
some Indian massacre or where interesting legendary scenes 
were enacted. 

We drove on and on passing spots of matchless beauty, 
here a hill of wondrous color and there a secluded tarn, while 

14 



further on stood the noble features of old Greylock. The ear 
would catch the music of the gentle runnel, the eye arrested 
by the enchantment of a fugitive bunch of autumnal color, the 
nose scenting the ambrosia of the gods. Who could view it 
all without a feeling of sanctity and when thought wings it- 
self to a Parnassian height and then takes on additional 
lustre — is it surprising that Bill was quiet? Not pensive, but 
entranced. Then we came to a knoll overlooking a hollow 
green beautifully affected by the lowering tones of the sun- 
set. A hollow, shall we call it, the hollow of God's hand? 
For such it was; or as the Spanish would style it, La Palma 
de la Mano de Dios. What means it all, whence, whither? 

Partner requested Ernest to stop the machine for a mo- 
ment that we might linger a little with the scene so entranc- 
ingly set before us and then — 

As if silently springing from the rock-ribbed side of the 
lonely trail, the stately form of an Indian appeared. Clad in 
the meager skins that draped the forms of the tribes of that 
period, he was followed by another, erect and bronzed and 
then a third with face lined and marked as if by the storms of 
life. These three moved silently across the trail, entered the 
thicket on the opposite side and disappeared. 

Then came a maiden, richly clad in skins and beads, a 
wealth of hair hanging in braids. Her eyes were as black as 
the night in a starless winter month, and by her side a buck 
of some ten summers, stood intently. 

They rested in the trail while she crooned an Indian love 
song, the motif of which seemed to change suddenly into that 
of the dirge carrying its weird and doleful notes through the 
hills, and then returning joined the winnowing of the leaves 
in a sweet cadence until only its memory lingered. 

At its conclusion she paused, looked into the receptive 
eyes of the lad and commenced to speak. She told him of the 
long, long night, how the Great Spirit threw a ball of fire into 
the sky and then the light of day came forth. She told him 
that the country was flat, that there were no trees to gladden 
the eye, no rivers to quench the thirst or moisten the hard 
ground, no animals or fish for food. 

One day a vulturous tribe, unbidden and merciless, like 
the fiendish rush of the storm, descended from the clouds, 
sprang upon their prey and killed the tribe, all save one lonely 
maiden whom they did not see and who escaped in the dark- 

15 



ness. She lay motionless on the blood-soaked ground where, 
numbed by the pall of death, this poor infinite soul was 
chastened by the sight of those shrouds of clay, and after 
their malefic mission was at an end, she arose and lifting her 
arms to the Great Spirit, pleaded to Him to protect her. 

Her lamentations were loud and the Great Spirit heard. 

She asked Him to rear around her great walls or hills to 
serve as a mighty fortress, and within which she could be 
safe. She prayed that between these hills might flow the 
gentle streams to nourish the land, and to carpet the hillside 
and glades with a beautiful verdure. As she closed her in- 
vocation the Great Spirit answered. 

The ground began gently to move and swell, at first but 
little hills appeared as though the earth hadj pressed its 
shoulders forth ; but gradually they pushed their granite forms 
toward the sky and mountains were formed. These were 
her battlements, the aegis of her protection. Then dainty 
green petals began to break through the earth, displacing its 
sterile crust, yielding a most beautiful carpet to ease the foot 
and sooth the eye, and flowers and ferns nestled against the 
floor of the valley, while tall and stately trees shot up here 
and there and came so fast that in kind and color she could 
not count them. 

The Great Spirit felt sad for the little squaw and shed 
tears for her suffering and these tears found their way by 
stealth down the hillside, idly dropping at first, then gently 
flowing onward and onward, until in myriads they sought 
companionship with each other, singing their sweet lullabys 
when they met and were merged into one big "peaceful 



• 99 

nver. 



When she beheld all this, her eyes were moist and her 
heart was full. The mountains gave her strength to defend 
her heritage. The trees as they reared their tips to the skies, 
led her to the Great Spirit, and beneath their leafy coats there 
couched the forms of life that were to be her food. The hills 
in their mantle of green, the trees tall and stately, the idly 
flowing waters all sang in symphonic tones — she had tri- 
umphed and her paeans rang through the glade and o'er the 
hills and into the crags of the mountain tops, until the bril- 
liant scene sank in the coloring of the west, leaving in its 
wake the soft light to blend its parting kisses with the on- 
coming night. 

16 



And this was the legend of the hills that she recited to the 
young warrior. In its benevolent deception she encouraged 
the redman's soul to go forth to the mountains, the hills, the 
trees and the "peaceful river." 

And then came the rude awakening. The pale face in- 
vaded these hills and the echo of her paean has faded into the 
song of the thrush. But who knows if the thunder of the 
hills be not her voice calling upon the Great Spirit for re- 
demptive justice. Aye, who knows? 



17 



IV. 

The Hoosac (peaceful river) is a beautiful mountain 
stream moving silently along through the gently rolling 
hills, then stretching out in the open glade, finally forcing its 
onward march through a cleft in the Taconic range as if to 
divide the battlements of the warring tribes. About here, en- 
sconced in the recesses of the hills, was a single grave, silent, 
storyless and as if guarded 

"By Nebo's lonely Mountain" — 

But there {& a little storj', or legend as we shall term it, about 
this spot, for here love and jealousy played their parts. 

Bena was a lovely little Indian maiden, the daughter of 
Wawbeek the invincible chief. She was in love with Osseo 
a young buck of admitted courage and fine form and face, 
Osseo loved Bena with a love that only big souls possess. 

They would meet at eventide and linger till the mystery 
of the purple tones of night passed under the cloak of Erebus. 
One evening she came as usual and waited for her lover, but 
he did not come, and she looked and gazed through the awful 
reaches of an endless horizon and then, beyond to an infinite 
solitude, but Osseo did not come. The shades of night op- 
pressed her and in the anguish of her soul she made her way 
back to her tepee where a peaceful sleep might still her rest- 
less spirit until the breaking of the day. 

Shada was another squaw belonging to the same tribe, a 
vixen and the spirit of jealousy incarnate. Shada loved Osseo 
but he did not return to her that which she gave to him. He 
loved her not. He knew, however, that Shada loved him and 
he aimed honorably to avoid her advances. 

Now it seems that Kwasind, a buck of great reputation 
as a fighter and an invincible foe, was also a suitor for 
the hand of Bena, not that he particularly loved her but he 
was possessed of a disposition that would do most anything 
to preclude Osseo from reaching his goal. Such natures are 
frequent in life and probably are designed by Providence as 
a reciprocal foil for the more earnest natures. 

Shada and Kwasind were capable of good team work, 
their moral obliquities were evenly divided and each was an 
adept in the art of deception. Shada probably was the more 
capable of the two and being a woman seemed to hold Kwas- 

18 



ind's mind somewhat in subjection, at least she could teach 
him some things in the art of intrigue. 

She resolved to induce her associate in these delicate 
brutalities, to make ardent love to Bena and if successful, the 
path to the heart of Osseo w^ould then be open to her. With 
a surging sea of human passions she approached her prey 
and carefully unfolded her plan in order not to let him indulge 
a suspicion of her real motive. Kwasind agreed, he seemed 
to comprehend her by an inverted reflection and with a keen 
appetite for exploration into the byways of her mental irregu- 
larities, he proceeded to the shrine of Bena's love. 

It was a fleeting romance. 

She loved but one and that one was Osseo. She did not 
love Kwasind and she told him so. 

When he reported to Shada how impotent had been his 
effort, she met him with an accusing stare, but he, unmoved 
by storm or tempest, smiled and only smiled. 

Undaunted, Shada seized a new thought and resolved to 
approach the chief with a suggestion that for the morrow's 
battle he offer a prize to the buck who shall prove most 
valiant in the field. Well she knew that Osseo, steeped in 
love would not enter the battle and prove himself equal to 
his former glory, but Kwasind would, and when, as it must, 
the laurel shall fall on him, he may name his wish and the 
chief will grant it. 

When she regaled in eloquent words the fighting quali- 
ties of his tribe and suggested that to the victor Wawbeek 
should grant his wish, she knew that such request could not 
be denied. 

The chief, all attention, approved her plan and Kwasind 
with cunning alacrity joined Shada in the intrigue. 

Accordingly the bucks were called together and the chief 
exhorted them to victory and promised to grant any wish or 
request that the victor might ask. 

It was this pow-wow that detained Osseo and that was 
why he did not venture forth to the trysting place to meet his 
love. 

The battle took place along the Hoosac River, the tribe 
was successful, Kwasnid the victor, and when they con- 
gregated to witness the laurel placed upon the brow of this 
doughty buck, all were there and Bena stood beside her loved 
Osseo. 

19 



The chief recounted the heroism of his tribe and then 
turning to Kwasind said: 

"And now my vaUant buck what would you ask as your 
prize?" E'er his words redeemed a truant faith, yet with tardy 
decision he replied: 

"Let Bena be my squaw." 

In an instant Bena was transformed into a tigress, she 
looked more like a vulture than the placid loving soul that she 
was. She screamed and fell in a swoon. 

Osseo, maddened with a rage that added a potent fury 
to passion, made a dash for his brutal enemy. They clutched 
and fought furiously, then Kwasind was seen to raise his 
tomahawk and fell his adversary to the ground. Osseo was 
dead. 

The lamentations of the little squaw beggared descrip- 
tion. She lifted her dainty bronzed arms to the Great Spirit 
and implored His revenge. She invoked a curse to blind his 
hateful eyes, to still his voice, to make him sterile in the art 
of war. Then she became calm, her soul was chastened like 
the wind that winnows the chaff from the grain and in this 
mood of ceaseless pain she prayed for peace, peace eternal. 
Then moving slowly towards the river's edge she knelt and 
as she leaned forth, again cried out to the Great Spirit for 
peace, peace, and then plunged into the river. 

The following day gently floating down the stream the 
stilled form of Bena with a mocking smile, her hands clasping 
a twig of sumac, moved on and on. She was at peace and ever 
after her funeral train was called the "Peaceful River." 

"Another such jolt as that, Ernest, and you will take me 
home in a wooden kimona," said Partner, for we had gone 
swiftly over a bad rut in the road. Bill was awakened, he had 
been dreaming. 



20 



V. 

In certain parts of eastern Massachusetts there is probably 
more of the primitive Hfe to be found than in any other part of 
New England, but even in these beautiful hills quaint and 
provincial characters will be encountered. 

We will call him Phil for the purpose of this narrative. 

It seems that for many years he had been driving a milk 
wagon throughout the country, and his friends and neigh- 
bors thought he had little ambition, that as he had reached 
the first quarter of a century, he ought to look forward to 
something a little more pretentious, but Phil was content. 
One day he resolved to study and to take the civil service 
examination for a Government berth. By dint of hard work 
he passed and then sought the aid of the Congressman in his 
district for a job. It was obtained for him and he began to 
bid family and friends good-bye. He went to Washington, 
entered upon the duties of his new position and apparently 
liked it. After an absence of a month he returned and re- 
sumed his old vocation driving the milk wagon. One of his 
friends saw him and inquired how it happened. 

"Thought you took the civil service examination, Phil?" 

"Did." 

"And I thought you went to Washington to get a job 
there." 

"Did." 

"Why didn't you stay with it?" 

"Didn't want to." 

"You don't say so." 

"Yep. Didn't like it. Only did it to show you people 
what I could do." 

The afternoon was wearing on to dusk and we were mak- 
ing for Pittsfield when we saw a lonely Indian in the road 
just ahead of us. Bill was anxious to pick a certain flower 
that had engaged his attention all the afternoon so the ma- 
chine stopped within a few feet of the redman. 

He was indeed a queer character. He wore a slouch hat, 
partly covering a face, the charm of which was hideously dis- 
torted by ugly scars that seemed the key to a veiled past and 
an unveiled future. A face that offered little index to a story 
that may have been heroic or melodramatic, moved one min- 
ute by an expression of solemn mien, then measurably bright- 
ened by a forced risibility, followed by a blending of both in 

21 



a peculiar syncopated or jerky expression determining the 
mental and physical slave that he was to the fallen estate of 
mankind. 

"How long have you lived in these woods?" queried 
Partner. 

"Always." 

"And what do j^ou do for a livelihood?" 

"Anything." 

"Are you a descendant of the Mohawks?" 

"Guess so." 

There was something about this man that breathed mys- 
tery. He was not an untutored, ordinary Indian, and if he had 
spoken beyond the brief replies he had given, a story might 
have unfolded or perhaps a picture presented itself, a fitting 
companion to the scene around us. 

Partner, a good judge of human nature, looked into those 
eyes and thought he observed an unwritten story full of 
cryptic interest. He offered the Indian a cigar which was 
accepted with avidity. It v/as the latch string to memory. 
It released the vocal chords, it created a strange and weird 
companionship. He became communicative, even garrulous. 
They talked of the hills, the trees, the river, and finally Bill 
suggested that the fall was late this year. Such led to the 
autumnal coloring of the East, how different from the West, 
and it was suggested that the cause may be different. Finally 
addressing Partner, he said : 

"Have you heard the story of the fall coloring?" 

Here surely was a theme to be seized for further infor- 
mation. 

"Sit down, I'll give it to you," said Scar Face ; and this is 
his idea of the legend of the fall. 

"Once upon a time my people lived here in their sim- 
plicity, hunting and fishing were the pastime, and save an 
occasional conflict between neighboring tribes, contentment 
abode in the hills, peace and plenty mioved o'er the valley. 
Then came Pale Face to mar the serenity of the scene. The 
poor Indian was in constant conflict with the invader and 
each time lost more of his camping ground. One day a big 
battle was fought. The Indians were securely entrenched 
behind a wall of granite. With spears, bows and arrows, and 
with dauntless courage as a shield against all misfortune, 
they awaited the attack from the Pale Face who were 

22 



approaching from the open valley. As they reached the gate 
to this canyon where the granite shoulders of the mountain 
seemed to make their position an impregnable fortress, the 
white invaders rushed upon them, which was neither more nor 
less than an attempt to lure the redmen from their lair. They 
accepted the challenge and went forth. The fighting was 
furious. The steady aim of the dauntless bucks brought many 
foes to the ground, but gunpowder overcame the swiftness 
of the arrow. The Indians were vanquished. The redmen's 
blood covered the ground and their bones lay everywhere, as 
monuments to a heroic past. Their flesh, what the vultures did 
not eat, remained as carrion to annoint the fields and fructify 
the soil. Their blood flowed like rivers, sank into the earth to 
enrich the vegetation of the hills. The trees that had been 
monarchs of the forest, the shrubs that frolicked in the gentle 
breeze along the river banks, the foliage that hugged the 
water's edge and served as a lacy drape to screen the project- 
ing rocks, the graceful sumac that fringed the lonely trail — 
all of these gifts from the Great Spirit became dwarfed as if 
cursed by the ruthless hand of Fate. Even the vigorous roots 
of the monarch oak absorbed the venom of the wounds. 
After winter had released her white mantle and the warmth 
of summer had infused a recreated life, they began to re- 
vive, but when the time approached to commemorate the 
events of the preceding year, those of the redmen who sur- 
vived, went quietly to their tents to hold communion with the 
Great Spirit. Upon return to the open glade they be- 
held a different scene. The ivy, the sumac and other of the 
lesser habiliments of the forest had taken unto themselves a 
reddish hue and when the trees looked to the floor and ob- 
served their transformation they asked why their compainons 
had donned a many colored dress in place of the green of the 
forest, and the little sapling, the clannish sumac and the 
vagrant shrub told them it was to commemorate the shedding 
of the redman's blood. In the flush of a deep sympathy the 
trees held council with each other and they in turn fol- 
lowed by assuming new robes. At first the green was tinged 
with a scarlet, thence to a crimson and finally to the coat of 
red. 

The deepening dusk with the attenuating outline of the 
village checked the reverie, for such was the story of the 
autumn. 

23 



VI. 

We drove into Pittsfield for the night. Of course we 
saw the town and met some of the people, but it was not 
"towns" that interested Bill. Towns are apt to be quite the 
same everywhere. There was, however, one old building 
that Partner wished to have Bill visit, and as the occupants 
were cousins of Partner's we called and had the opportunity 
to visit the old Peace House. 

The Rectory or Peace House as it is commonly known 
is where the famous Peace Party was held to celebrate the 
surrender of Cornwallis to Washington. It is a quaint old 
structure with its many rooms, set and fixed like the squares 
on a checker-board, low ceilings and open conventional hall of 
that period, the old fashioned narrow staircasing, a parlor and 
dining room on one side, reception and other rooms opposite. 
There was the typical open fire place, with antique andirons, 
quaint, artistic and fascinating. The furniture is not of the 
early times, but is some of the best specimens of the old 
school design and much of it is indeed old, as the rich tones 
of the mahogany indicated. 

In the rear is the study and up stairs are many bedrooms, 
each with its bath and furnished as of old with quaint four- 
post beds. The Bishop's room, well, serenely fashioned, 
stately with a Bishoply atmosphere. 

The most modern furnishing lay quietly ensconced be- 
tween pillows and white linen in a cradle of modern make, 
an infant totally oblivious of Bill's sympathetic eyes. What 
a heritage to have been born and reared within the walls of 
this old historic manse. 

Suffice to say that the parents, host and hostess, were 
charming and the evening was one of pleasure. Refinement 
and culture, and withal a lively sense of the eternal life, were 
the atmosphere of the old Rectory. 

While it is true that four only engaged the conversation, 
yet the room was filled to overflowing with courageous and 
noble spirits of the memorable past, and each impressed his 
personality in a manner to move the soul to a reverence for 
peace and good will on earth. 

The following morning we got an early start because we 
wished to make New Haven by 3 o'clock and Ernest knew 
what to do and how to do it. 

24 



How different the tones, for last night as we reached 
Pittsfield it was a saffron toned horizon blending with the 
infinite purple that clung to the mountain side, but in the 
morning the first gray had been translated into the golden 
flood of light. 

Speaking of tones, the people of the East do not know 
what the inspiring purple of the great western mountains 
really is or how it influences the mind — possibly it is accentu- 
ated by the height and ruggedness of the mountains — but it 
surely is different. 

It was a beautiful morning and the thrush and, the 
meadow lark were sending their melodies through the hills, 
the feathery tamarack nodded as we passed by and the droop- 
ing willow seemed to lift its delicate tracery to peep into our 
faces for a smile. We were skirting along the lower shelf 
of the hillside and in companionship with the Hoosac River. 
Then we came to a turn where jutting headlands took the 
view from us, but only for a moment, for e'er we had a 
chance to redirect our eyes the machine entered a long col- 
onade of white birch interspersed with the elm, maple, 
walnut — and here and there a butternut, all forming an arch 
of great beauty. It was not altogether the trees that made 
it so enchanting but flowers playing the coquette at every 
turn, the wild aster, white balsam, then the golden rod in 
goodly numbers until in the distance it looked not a little 
unlike our own poppy fields, the seductive sumac with its 
pompon of dark crimson and the purple dogwood. Oh, so 
much to gladden the eye, and just after we had entered this 
arboreal path, we saw a little pool to the right in which the 
birds were supping the cool water and taking their morning 
dip. They ceased their music for this libation, and as if to 
bathe their forms in the lustral waters of the gods. 

When we reached Norfolk the road forked but we took 
the southerly one towards Torrington striking the Connecti- 
cut Valley and a beautiful country along the Naugatuck 
River, passing through Torrington, Thomaston and making 
for Waterbury where we were to luncheon. 

"Waterbury has something on every man," is a slogan 
quite unique, for they make about everything that a man 
has on his person. 

We partook of a substantial meal at The Elton, called 
by some the most attractive hotel in New England, as for 

25 



that it is difficult to say for they are all good, some, of course, 
better than others. 

It is attractively located on the Green, and green in New 
England means something. We left Waterbury about 2 
o'clock and started for New Haven. All along the Nauga- 
tuck we encountered beautiful spots. Many of them lay 
hidden behind clumps of maple and so nestled that the rap- 
idly moving car almost precluded observation. Again we 
passed more colonades of stately trees with a graceful blend- 
ing of color, the wild flowers nodding to the passerby ; now a 
puny stream making heroic effort to become a creek or a 
mere thread of a creek flowing gently through some flowered 
mead or moss grown glade, then bursting upon the view 
were the beautiful oak-clad hills. Again there was the 
river with its tortuous turns, some of these bends forming 
quiet pools where the cress-covered waters had played the 
fugitive by gently backing in the crescent of the bank and 
when unbroken by the cress and other water foliage, mir- 
rored the stately elms. 

It is a most alluring melody that reaches the ear when 
you approach a pool into which is rhythmically dropping a 
little waterfall. It descends gently like a thin veil o'er mi- 
lady's face, then in a rollicking cascade splashes along to 
take another dip and with a rush reaches the river where it 
rolls on and on. Many of these spots are enchanting and 
infuse a sense of narcissal luxury. 

We now commenced to see the first touch of fall. The 
night before the frost had found its way to part of these hills 
and the eye feasted on the suggestion of a great color scheme. 
Sitting beside the river bank was a pretty picture; a young 
girl of about seventeen, possibly less, just doing nothing, just 
sitting, reminding one of sweet Diana beside the running 
stream. The picture was heightened in its effect by the trees 
that, reared in Memphian grace, formed an arch over the 
modern Diana. As the machine made the curve in the road 
beyond, Bill and Partner raised their hats, not with an af- 
fected civility but simply — well, after a long stretch we drove 
into some sheep that were making for their pasture which 
was surrounded by a fen-land of some beauty. The scene was 
a pleasant contrast by removing one picture and substituting 
for a moment one of bucolic simplicity. In fact you could al- 
most hear the cadence of the shepherd's reed. One little 

26 



sheep lagging behind the rest stood alone beside the fence and 
then a vagrant bird in a truant flight just lit upon the fence 
and began to send its shrill notes into the ear of the sheep, 
but who probably was totally oblivious of its tonal charm. 

"Here, Bill," said Partner, "how is that for autumnal col- 
oring?" and sure enough he was right. While the ivy and 
the sumac had turned some few days before, now the red was 
on the maple and the coloring was indeed beautiful although 
not as much of it as he had hoped. Here was a family of 
maples grouped together as if for social intercourse or pro- 
tection against the violent elements that at times appear to 
respect nothing, in fact there were two beautiful trees near 
by that received the fatal blow from the fluid fire that courses 
through the air. 

"Another week," said Partner, "and the coloring will be 
more plentiful and beautiful, but we haven't had frost enough 
yet," and Bill began to picture the whole country dressed in 
its autumnal harmonies. 



27 



VII. 

Throughout New England the cemeteries form no un- 
important part of the villages and not infrequently has the 
highway been cut through the center of the burying ground. 

Some of these silent cities were indeed beautiful, and 
whether laid out on the open stretch of the flat, or crowning 
hills of eternity, the simple stones with their quaint inscrip- 
tions lent a charm to the passing scene. 

We were driving through one of these beautiful ceme- 
teries in Connecticut when of a sudden Ernest threw on the 
brakes and brought the car to a stop. 

A peculiar sight was revealed. But after all one cannot 
take a trip through this country without confronting many 
peculiar incidents. Well, as it is related, we came to a sud- 
den halt — just think of it, a "dead" stop in a cemetery, how 
funereal ! 

Just ahead of us in the open road appeared the 

"DANCE OF THE TOMBSTONES." 

Ernest was wise and knew better than to attempt to 
force the machine through this weird throng of inanimate and 
grotesque terpsichoreans. 

The stop was none too soon for lying across the road 
and almost touching the wheels of the machine was a large 
marble slab, and chiseled upon the face were the name and 
dates of birth and death. We alighted to give this slab a 
closer examination and it proved to be that of an 
Obstructionist, one who died a hundred years ago and 
whose life had been devoted to the work of constant obstruc- 
tion. Just a little beyond, the marble figure of what appeared 
to be a witch stood, with outstretched arms and in rather a 
menacing attitude. 

In measured monotones we heard "Back, you modern 
devils, back!" For just a moment Partner and Bill were a 
little unnerved, for while the sight was a novelty it was not 
particularly inviting or amusing. A sense of humor, how- 
ever, overcame the two travelers and Partner, who has an 
inquiring turn of mind, said "Come along. Bill, let's look 
into this." 

Of course, it must be known that Partner was not as 

28 



anxious for Bill's judgment upon this particular phenomenon 
as he was for a little reinforcement. 

However, both walked up to the figure which bore a 
name obliterated by time, but it was quite evident that it 
was Intolerance. The whole road was filled with these 
dancers, here and there were observed those who did not 
partake of the festivities, but one notably that attracted at- 
tention was crouched on one side of the road. The features 
were horribly distorted. It had been many years since that 
soul had passed to the Great Beyond and the elements had 
not dealt kindly with its granite form. 

By a closer examination it was easily seen that this was 
Jealousy, still nursing the same old grouch. Then attention 
was attracted to two marble figures, very old indeed, in fact 
the oldest of them all. These were quietly seated on the rim 
of the road ensconced between a fugitive rose and a bunch of 
wild balsam, immediately back of which was a stately elm, its 
branches seeming to serve as sentinels against the ugly mien 
of Jealousy, 

It was not necessary to go very close to them for intui- 
tively we knew them to be Love, and they were — 

But to the dance. 

As related it was weird and grotesque. A stately column 
matched with a broken shaft was dancing and whirling, totally 
oblivious of all around. The forms and characters of these 
tombstones were varied. Avarice was a twisted column, Suc- 
cess and Failure were in spirited conversation and around 
them moved these weird figures as if to invisible music. 

A rather stately, chaste looking marble moved up to 
Partner, made a courteous bow and congratulated him upon 
the beauty of his car. This proved to be Progress and 
quite affable. A short stubby piece of granite rushed forward 
and in a piping voice wanted to know what that "thing" was, 
of course referring to the machine. Not only its tone but its 
defiant manner proved it an old Puritan of the nonprogressive 
type, one who had believed that all things up-to-date were 
devils incarnate, and notwithstanding it had passed away 
about three quarters of a century ago it was still vehement in 
protest and curses against all modern progress. Partner in a 
spirit of jocularity spoke : 

"Why, old chap, you do not realize what has gone on 
since your day; now they fly in the air and sail beneath the 

29 



waves, the human voice is carried through the air for miles 
without any apparent means of communication; through a 
simple wire we can converse with each other across the con- 
tinent; we reproduce music or the human voice or any sound 
on a piece of compressed rubber, every note vibrates, the 
intonation perfectly recorded. Why do you know — " before 
Partner could proceed further with the galaxy of achieve- 
ments of the past twenty years this little granite stump gave 
a whirl, a spin, fell to the ground and was broken into a 
thousand pieces. 

The gyrations of these many formed marbles continued 
to fascinate the travelers for it was surely a medley of move- 
ments. Quite as quickly as the dance commenced it ceased 
and each assumed its customary place. The silence of the 
tomb again would have become oppressive had not the swiftly 
moving messenger passed on into the faithful greens and reds 
of nature. 



30 



VIII. 



The roads through Connecticut and the Berkshires and 
also from New Haven to New York are especially fine and, 
apart from the fascinating environment, the car runs smoothly, 
without effort and imparts to the tourist a redeeming 
sense of satisfaction, for a possibly long day drive. 

Throughout Connecticut the system of direction is both 
simple and unique. The pole or tree or whatever is designed 
to carry the sign, is encircled by a red or a blue band about 
five or six inches wide painted thereon. One color indi- 
cates the northerly and southerly direction and the other 
color the easterly and westerly direction, so that the tourist 
carrying in mind the color will always know whether he is 
going north or south or to the other points of the compass. 
This is very convenient, but to a stranger the absence of signs 
to indicate the town is regrettably noticeable. 

We now came to a part of the river which always fasci- 
nates Bill: where the logs and driftwood congregate for any 
purpose their inanimate form.s may suggest. You do not see 
as much of that in New England as in California and the 
West, presumably because the rivers in New England are 
power producers, but driftwood is always interesting to one 
accustomed to the West and which invariably teaches a rich 
philosophy. 

In this instance the jam was not a very large one, about 
a dozen logs had completely dammed the throat at the 
bend of the river. In their rushing course down the stream 
they came pell-mell forming geometric designs and so inter- 
laced as to become an impregnable barrier. Says Partner, 
"Look at those two little fellows trying to force their passage 
through that solid wall of timber, and did you see that 
little one forced over by the current?" 

"Yes, and look. Partner," said Bill, "see those two big 
fellows just abutting against the wall. They came down with 
great force, but they couldn't break the lock." 

"These mute logs illustrate the law of co-operation 
and the power of resistance. 'Tis not the atomic strength 
but the unit of many atoms that gives that wall its strength" 
said Bill. 

31 



"Now look" interpleaded Partner, "those poor little 
timbers floating idly must respond to force and stay where 
they are put." 

"That's very good" responded Bill, " 'stay where they are 
put' has a dynamic meaning." 

Then a little further on, a log unaccompanied by a com- 
panion just floated leisurely and indifferently tossed by the 
current from one side to the other, then again released by the 
moving water to continue its purposeless journey. 

"How true that is in life," said Bill, "one poor soul is 
tossed about with little opportunity to guide itself." 

"Yes, Bill, that is true" said Partner, "but a whole lot of 
them just float, waiting for some other influence to push them 



on. 



These speculations were interrupted by a quaint old- 
fashioned house engaging our attention. It was erected about 
1690 and as we were informed was the scene of many historic 
incidents and the following may interest the reader. 

The architecture of this building was that which ante- 
dated the later Colonialism of stately columns. The door was 
flush with the front of the building, but was graced by curves 
and lines of artistic merit. The occupants were an old Eng- 
lish family consisting of the parents and a daughter of rare 
beauty and charm of manner. Her hand was sought by a 
young lieutenant, a representative of the crown. One day he 
sat with the chief of one of the Indian tribes recounting his 
ambition to win the hand of his young lady and sitting near 
by was a medicine man who overheard the story. The latter 
rather liked the lieutenant and resolved to help him. Accord- 
ingly he managed to meet the young lady on various occasions 
and impressed her with his great power of sorcery and divi- 
nation. He told her that he could make her see her lover, 
the man whom she ought to marry, and that if she did not 
accept the one who would appear in her dream she would 
be miserable the remainder of her life, but that if she did 
marry the one depicted in this dream she would live an 
Arcadian existence. The wiley old buck finally induced her 
to let him try. Now the Indian medicine man is not a doctor 
as the name would imply, but rather a "mystery man," a 
magician. The word is adapted from the French whose doctor 
or physician is medecin. She agreed to meet the medicine 
man at the appointed time and place and when she arrived he 

32 



had prepared the paraphernalia consisting of a large caldron or 
bowl into which he poured several liquids and this mixed with 
some herbs was set on fire and sent a pungent odor through 
the air. He then commenced his incantations over the burn- 
ing pot-pourri at the same time mumbling some Indian names 
and words, and passed her a little vial containing a dram of 
rather a pleasing taste which she drank and immediately she 
became lulled by countless imagery into a sweet and passing 
dream. In this dream she saw the lieutenant pleading for 
her hand, then her acceptance and finally the happy marriage. 
When she came out of the trance she recited to the medicine 
man what she had seen and then returned to her home mysti- 
fied but none the less elated. Within a few days thereafter 
the lieutenant called, and unknowing of what had transpired, 
pressed his suit and was accepted. Then commenced a love 
making that out-romeoed Romeo, He plead that her voice 
had taught his heart to throb and that in the dead of night 
the memory of her voice had lulled him to sleep as if by sweet 
harmonies from out the Dorian lute. 

It appears that the medicine man had a wife, a squaw 
also skilled in the necromancy of the red-man. Having heard 
from her buck the story of the young lady, she sought the 
lieutenant and likewise impressed him with her power of 
divination. She told him that she could bring to his vision 
the true picture of the woman he loved, but who did not love 
him in return, and this she could prove. It appears that 
there was another officer in the regiment who had met this 
young lady but was not known to have called upon her. 
However, the medicine woman induced the lieutenant to test 
her power. The same ceremony was performed as with his 
lady love and then he likewise partook of the contents of a 
vial, a mixture of soporific herbs. The incantations, and 
mumblings accompanied by a weird dance were performed 
and concluding, she passed her hands over his face and 
he awakened. He recounted his dream, to the effect that he 
saw the other officer making love to his intended bride, she 
caressing him in just such fashion as was her wont with the 
lieutenant. The medicine woman gazed with a mocking 
stare as if to cloak her crimes with cunning smiles. He re- 
turned to his room and sat throughout the weary night think- 
ing of what he had seen, with eyelids dry for want of tears, 
tears that would bring to this yearning heart some little con- 

33 



solation. Despair was slowly sapping the sweetness of spring 
to leave the autumnal change its moiety, e'er the winter came 
to chill his love. 

Without much of an explanation he broke the engage- 
ment. . Her reason became dethroned and for a while her life 
was in the balance. The medicine man learned of his squaw's 
perfidy and he at once went to the parents of the young lady 
and recited the case in all its details. He told them he could 
restore the reason of their daughter and likewise the lieuten- 
ant's love. They yielded and the medicine man went through 
his weird ceremonies and again her mind became bright, her 
cheeks assumed their accustomed glow and he brought back 
to her the love of the lieutenant — more ardent than ever. 



34 



IX. 



Moving on, now rising to a height enabhng the eye to 
feast upon a richly carpeted country below, then descending 
to the valley hidden in the elms, passing towns v^here the 
commercial is the quickening sense and, by the way, speaking 
of commerce one can't help but reflect that the railroads get 
them coming and going. They haul the raw material to these 
great factories, wait until the machine spins it into the finished 
product and then quietly haul it to the market. Like the 
country fair "pay to get in and pay to get out." 

"What's that mean?" queried Bill, referring to a sign 
"Thank you." 

"Why" responded Partner, "the town asks you to slow 
down to ten miles an hour and then as you go out they thank 
you. 

It was just at this point when Partner cautioned Ernest 
to slow down: "Don't you recognize this point?" 

It happened this way: Partner and his chauffeur were 
speeding along one of the famous roads of Connecticut when 
they were hailed and told to report to the court the following 
morning. In New England as much as in other parts of the 
country, the motor police are quite as indifferent to the fate 
of the motorist as the latter is to the average pedestrian, so 
when Partner was ordered to stop, it was to comply. 

The amusing part of this story is that in this Connecticut 
Court the preponderance of evidence had little effect upon 
the learned judge. Ernest is a careful driver and he knows 
his machine, he also knows the roads, like the Mississippi 
skipper that Mark Twain tells about, "he doesn't always know 
where the rocks are, but he surely knows where they aint." 

Ernest took the stand in his own behalf and testified that 
just as the officer called, he looked at the speedometer and it 
registered a trifle over thirty miles an hour, and when Partner 
assumed the role of witness he corroborated the testimony of 
his chauffeur. The minion of the law, however, contradicted 
that evidence and said he recorded the machine as going forty- 
one miles. Here the evidence rested in the scales of justice, 
two to one, and the standing of Partner and the excellent 
record of Ernest should have been taken into consideration, 
but would you believe it, the judge adopted the testimony of 
the officer, enjoying, undoubtedly, that vested privilege of 

35 



passing upon the credibility of witness. Ernest was fined 
fifty dollars and costs. 

Of course, they have no speed law in Connecticut, and 
Ernest was within the law even at forty-one miles. The law 
is silent on the subject of speed, but if you do any damage, 
as Partner says, "It's all up with little Willie." 

"But" interposed the learned counsel for Ernest, "if, your 
Honor, there is no limit under the law, how could defendant 
know that he was violating the statute of this Common- 
wealth?" 

"Once upon a time a person was killed on that road" 
replied the Court, "by a big machine going forty miles an 
hour, and this machine was going forty miles, therefore some- 
one might have been killed by this machine." 

This was the inexorable logic of the case at bar, and 
counsel recalled the dictum of Lord Holt that "law is reason." 

However, as it is related, a fine was imposed and con- 
sidering the fact that the majesty of the law might further have 
been conserved by an additional penalty of ten days in jail, 
Partner looked pleasant, paid the fine, which amount was 
endorsed on the license. This little formality is deemed wise 
that when application is made for its renewal the record 
denotes whether the chauffeur is a safe driver. In fact pre- 
cisely like endorsing a partial payment on the back of a note 
— it lessens its value. 

Driving on, about twenty miles an hour, we observed 
some pretty colorings along the road, with here and there a 
little pool to lend a charm to the scene. Finally we stopped 
to view the dainty bed of wild flowers that ere long would 
croon their vespers to the sun and then close their tiny petals 
for the night. At this time of the year they seemed to huddle 
together in clusters, lest the touch of frost might make their 
passing too lonely. A wild daisy here and there, hugging the 
ground, tempted Partner to its plucking. "Why disturb me" 
in chiding tones, came to the vandal's ear. "You would hazard 
the supremest joy of the traveler to count a moment only of 
your gain." 

Bill plucked a pom-pon from the sumac, to learn the 
wisdom from the flowers. "Once break my stem and your 
prize is shortlived. Why not leave me to enrich the road and 
thus make your passage one of pleasure," a rebuke that made 
the ravisher hesitate indeed. 

36 



"But" said Bill, "your life is but a transient one and your 
companionship means much to me." 

"Ah, yes," replied the sumac, "but you forget that we are 
for the many, not for you alone." 

Then the silver-weed that fringes the water's edge, the 
balsam., the purple dogv/ood and the wormwood in its yellow 
dress, each in chorus chided the travelers for their wanton 
greed. True, that reproof becomes the shield to stop the 
arrow's flight and so the despoilers ceased the rape of the 
flowers, for just then the liquid tones of the passing thrush 
and the carol of the lark were blended in a chorus of song 
that made the travelers ashamed. 

"What point is that?" asked Bill. 

"That is East Rock" said Partner, for we were now 
approaching New Haven, and sure enough we were home 
again. 

Another delightful evening in the home of Yale; and the 
following morning we started for New York via Milford, 
Stratford and Bridgeport, thence to Norwalk, Stamford and 
Greenwich, the two latter being very beautiful places. 

Partner had a friend by the name of Ham, who wished to 
accompany us to New York. Now, of course, Ham is not his 
full name, but just the same he was a good old scout. He 
could tell a good story, sing and play poker. By the way, 
playing auto poker is some fun. Instead of cards we used the 
numbers of the on-coming cars. First Bill would call and 
sure enough the number was 66320, a pair of sixes ; then Ham 
got three of a kind, but for quite a while the luck seemed to 
be against Partner. Finally his turn came and four sixes passed 
to his credit and so on for about three hours. Some game! 

Moving along the road just before reaching the confines 
of New York, we observed a sentinel seated by a lonely tree, 
who moved into the lane and hailed us: 

"Have you any babies in that car?" 

"No", responded Partner. 

"What's that for" asked Bill. 

"Infantile paralysis" responded the guardian of the health. 

We drove about two miles further on and came to a fork 
in the road where we were again stopped, and a representative 
of the health department stepped up to the car, looked into 
it and simply said "Move on." 

V/e commenced a song and it finally dawned upon Bill 

37 



that each time he started to sing, Partner always had some- 
thing to which our attention should be called along the road- 
side. Now Bill thinks he can sing just about as well as Part- 
ner, but — 

Another hand went up and Partner arose and made a 
gesture to the "cop" that all was well — adding — "We have no 
babies in here." 

"Shure an' I'll decide that for myself," and after looking 
into the car, moved us on with — "Don't catch the py-ralasis." 

Now what do you think of that, and for a mile or so we 
tried to settle the question as to whom he referred, one or all. 

Well, here is gay old New York, the most fascinating, 
the most brutal and the most provincial city in the country. 

Au Revoir! 



•3 



8 



L'ENVOI 



X. 

Rufus, Oh yes, it is unrelated that Rufus is the dog. Well, 
he is an enigma. Who his parents were is not of record, but 
he is some dog just the same — "some dog." Partner calls 
him a cock-tail and when questioned as to just what kind of 
a dog that is, he smiled and replied "a grand mixture." 

His owner is not at all sensitive about the animal. He 
says himself that no one would give five cents for the dog, 
but that he would not take five hundred dollars for him. A 
neighbor once remarked that he would like to own half of the 
animal, and Partner began to swell with pride. "Why, what 
on earth would you do with one-half of the dog?" 

"Shoot my half," came the laconic reply. 

However, Rufus has more sense than a great many people 
who pat him on the back. Why, that dog will sit quietly 
throughout a dinner and never make a sound or move, but just 
as soon as the maid removes the roast from the table, Rufus 
quietly hikes to the kitchen. "Some intelligence," says Part- 
ner. You know you can't help becoming attached to an animal 
like that, for as Partner says — "He knows when to leave the 
table." Of course that remark may have had some signifi- 
cance although Partner was looking straight at the dog when 
he said it. 

Bill and Rufus became warm friends and learned to 
understand each other quite well. At first the dog had his 
doubts and was rebellious, but before Bill left, Rufus would 
eat out of his hand. 



40 



XI. 

Talk about shore dinners, well that is the piece de resist- 
ance in the cuisine of the New Englander. 

We drove to the shore of Long Island Sound, just out of 
Norwalk, and Partner, with wise discrimination, had prepared 
for the event, and some preparation it was. 

As we entered the dining-room the ladies were seated, 
and our host invited the gentlemen to meet two old pals of his. 
He premised the introduction by stating that they were quaint 
characters, that he had met these two brothers in a trip up 
the Nile some years previous and they became fast friends. 
They had tastes quite in common and when Partner likes any 
one, he likes him through and through, and then some. So as 
it is related, he was anxious that Bill from California should 
shake hands with his old pals from Egypt. As we stepped 
into the other room — Partner, says he, "Where are the twins?" 
The gentleman accosted gave a well modulated call, when in 
stepped the two brothers. En passant it might be well to 
relate that they were twins, rather short of stature, a little 
"pinched" in expression and from the aroma, one would sus- 
pect that they were some smokers, their complexion sandy 
as their name would indicate. They were the embodiment of 
good cheer, rollicking good fellows, and one immediately 
became inoculated at the first introduction. They made you 
laugh, were exhilarating, and in short were such to which you 
wished to tie. However, Partner took hold of Bill's arm, led him 
up to his friends and with that general fellowship — "Bill, meet 
my good friends Haig and Haig!" 

Oh yes, the dinner ! My yes ! 

Well, first was served clams on the half shell, then a clam 
chowder. The Connecticut chowder! By the way, the man 
from the Nutmeg State thinks that that is the only chowder 
made. Personally Bill expressed a preference for the Massa- 
chusetts chowder where you get an opportunity to see the 
clam frequently, and not be compelled to play hide and seek 
with it. However, the chowder was all that they claimed for 
it. Then followed steamed little-necks, a meal in themselves. 

The fourth course was blue fish broiled, and served meu- 
niere, fit for the gods. At these shore dinners they are very 
apt to serve what the Easterner considers a delicate morsel, 

41 



and that is the shad, but Bill hates the bones and the blue fish 
was a very delightful substitute. 

Broiled live lobster, just think of it, after what pre- 
ceded. At this juncture it is deemed quite au fait to depart 
from the fish diet, and a broiled squab is served, followed by 
a salad of tomato and cucumber. 

With this repast was served Shelter Island corn, steamed, 
not boiled, for thereby is the delicious flavor of the corn pre- 
served, but such corn! It is worth a trip across the continent 
to indulge one's appetite in corn, although the Golden Ban- 
tam is the best and most luscious, yet all corn in the East 
seems to suggest — "come again." Well, now it is proper to 
partake of a light dessert, such as ice cream or watermelon, 
with a little cheese and cracker and then the demi-tasse. Wine 
(et tu Brute) is served for the stomach's sake and after all 
this, you have performed a gastronomic feat that one never 
can forget. 

Now just go over this menu once more, that is, read it 
once again and try to comprehend what a shore dinner means. 
You cannot assimilate the idea, the food — yes. But one thing 
sure, when you have finished this, you feel satiated and there 
is a suggestion of abdominal rotundity which lingers for some 
few hours thereafter. 



42 



XII. 



Several books had been suggested to Bill with which to 
pass the lagging hours across the continent. In a general way 
he remembered their titles and resolved to purchase one the 
first opportunity, so when he visited a large store and reached 
the book department, he was ushered into a rare atmosphere 
of refined intolerance. What else could one expect from the 
spirit of a Luther, Jeremy Taylor, Nordeau, Spencer, Tom 
Paine and the infinite number of latter day saints of literature, 
more or less broad or narrow. He at once realized that he 
was in the presence of the master minds, past and present. 
What an atmosphere, what an inspiration! Ere he proceeded 
far, a peculiar incident occurred, a measurably embellished vol- 
ume moved from its emplacement, opened its covers as a greet- 
ing, and commenced to discuss the war. Then a rather unassum- 
ing volume exclaimed, "Beware these conventional lies." Well 
Bill knew Max Nordeau by his voice, it was a voice of protest. 
Then two steps to the right and a little dusty volume, with a 
gray-bluish cover bowed in acknowledgment of Bill's curious 
gaze. The bow was courtly and such a one as the author 
must have had in mind when he penned the opening para- 
graph of his "Advancement of Learning" for it was none other 
that Francis Bacon. Bill was a little inclined to be facetious, 
but the learned volume precluded it: "Phoebus, with thy 
darts revenge our tears," came forth in measured tones and 
left Bill to speculate as to whether it was intended to refer 
to the current controversy as to the authorship of Shakespeare. 

Now Bill was just about to say that for years he had 
become convinced that Shakespeare was not the author, but 
that his incomplete reading prevented him from becoming a 
Baconian partisan. Then also he was on pleasure bent and 
not inclined to controversial subjects, but he was wise to hold 
his peace and thus prevent Bacon from coming back in a more 
effective and facetious mood by quoting Demosthenes' retort 
to Aeschinus, a man of pleasure who taunted the great orator 
that "his speeches smelt of the lamp." "There is a great dif- 
ference between the objects which you and I pursue by lamp- 
light," said the great Athenian. 

In dulcet tones from apparently nowhere — "Are you look- 
ing for anything in particular?" came to Bill's ears and he 

43 



turned to observe a most charming pair of brown eyes looking 
into his blue searchers. 

"Yes, if you please, 'Woman's Eyes.' " 

"Again, please," came in a sweet and modulated voice. 

" 'Woman's Eyes' " repeated Bill. 

"By whom?" 

Now Bill thought a moment and wondered if he had 
gotten the wrong title. "Why, by Harold Bell Wright" said 
he. 

"Don't you mean 'Eyes of the World?' " 

"Possibly, but is there any difference?" 

With remarkable composure, she smiled, colored a trifle 
and proceeded to bring the book and — the eyes also. 

As she handed him the book and received the price, she 
remarked: "I should like to be in a position to present that 
copy to you." 

Bill was himself a little doubtful as to how much of a 
hit he had made. Thanking her and with a courteous bow, 
took his departure and as he neared the end of the section, a 
well bound volume of Emerson made obeisance to the cus- 
tomer, opened its covers and simply remarked: "He builded 
better than he knew." 

"Down." 

Bill took the elevator and was again in the busy and 
vulgar street. 

"Woman's Eyes"— no, "Eyes of the World." 

"Look out, can't you see where you are going, want to 
be run over?" 

How could he? 



44 



XIII. 

Standing behind the cigar stand was a very charming bit 
of femininity, with a pair of large blue eyes and a complexion 
to indicate Irish parentage. Well, she looked pretty good to 
Bill and his Partner — a fresh look, but not of manner, rather 
cultivated you would say. 

Bill did not dare to look into those orbs of blue, they 
were not the cerulean blue, but the real blue blue. Well, be 
that as it may, says Bill, pointing to some cigars in the case, 
"Two of those, please." Now he is used to having the box 
passed out, taking the cigars himself therefrom, but "Blue 
Eyes" pushed her hand into the case, took out the two cigars 
and passed them over the counter to Bill. If it were not for 
his observing nature, this offense might have been con- 
doned, he had not the courage to suggest to Blue Eyes that 
the box be presented to him. When she handed the cigars 
over the counter, her hands were very soiled and her nails 
had not been cleaned for many a moon. 

As the two were passing out of the door of the hotel. Bill 
was seen to nod to the bell-boy and pass him a cigar, and then, 
"Oh, yes ; give this one to the elevator-boy for me." Bill and 
his Partner entered the car and started out for their day's 
journey. One, two and three miles according to the speedo- 
meter, and not a word, but there are times in one's life when 
events or scenes flash before the mind and find anchorage 
there. 

Says Bill, "Do you know, I was much disappointed in 
those blue eyes." 

"Eyes or hands, Bill?" 

"Well, I expected something different." 

"And you got it" came Partner's quick retort. "When 
traveling in Ireland" continued Partner, "I was given a jolt 
once not so very much removed from your case and a friend 
of mine expressed it in verse." 

"Don't suppose you remember it" said Bill. 

"I think so" said Partner, and proceeded to recite. 



45 



THE MAID OF MALLEROOK 

There sat a maid, a dainty nymph, 

Beside the running brook; 
Her face was fair to look upon. 
Her form a perfect paragon, 

The Maid of Mallerook, 

I moved by stealth, up to her side, 

Just o'er the running brook; 
A matchless beauty was reveal'd. 
An eloquence of thought conceal'd, 

This Maid of Mallerook. 

As if 'twere Lethe running there, 
This gentle, flowing brook; ; 
I supped this cool and magic stream, 
And lo! all else was but a dream, 
Oh! Maid of Mallerook. 

And when she gazed into mine eyes, 

'Twas by the running brook; 
A tear was there, her cheek to lave. 
Thought I how proud to be her slave, 
Dear Maid of Mallerook. 

Then spoke I to this dainty nymph, 

Close by the babbling brook; 
"What thought is passing through thy mind, 
"What hope may I, now therein find" 
Sweet Maid of Mallerook? 

Her eyes were bright as Heaven's gems, 

Just gazing o'er the brook; 
And when they looked into mine own, 
The seed of love was therein sown. 

Fond Maid of Mallerook. 



46 



In rapture, stood I there the nonce, 

Down by the quiet brook ; 
And measured strength, by sigh and tear, 
Awaiting her reply with fear; 

Speak! Maid of Mallerook. 

Then straightway turned the maid to me, 

Yet sitting by the brook; 
"Yous lobsters aint no good," she said, 
"So quit yer kiddin', mutton-head," 

Quoth, Maid of Mallerook. 

Then down the lane I strolled alone, 

Along the singing brook; 
Yea, "mutton-head" and "lobster" too, 
Are much too good for me and you, 
If thus we chance, the fool to do. 

Wise Maid of Mallerook, 



47 



AFTER-WORD 

By the wooded banks the gentle stream goes moving on. 
The hills of beauty, the vales of song and the leaf of color 
yet abide, while the spirit of the West enshrined in fabled 
dreams still lingers o'er that scene and then reluctantly moves 
westward to their sister charms. 



48 



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